


To Soothe The Savage Beast

by Ghanima_Starkiller



Series: Reimagining Fairy Tales [8]
Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms, La Belle et la Bête | Beauty and the Beast
Genre: Beast sex, F/M, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:12:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghanima_Starkiller/pseuds/Ghanima_Starkiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beau finds himself alone in a mysterious castle ruled by a fearsome beast, with his only companion an attractive young lady with a secret...</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Soothe The Savage Beast

He awakes alone in the cold bedchamber, disoriented, unaware of how he’d ended up there. Slowly, memories start to come back to him in fragmented pieces, like stained glass. He had been in the woods, yes, that was it! In the woods, traveling, with the dark forest canopy dressed in its finest wedding whites, hoarfrost clinging to the evergreen branches. He had begun to hum, and then to sing, to distract himself from the knee-deep snow he was trudging through, watching his own breath puff and mist, and then float away like a phantom on the still air. Something crashing through the trees, big—a bear? No, something more frightening, more savage, all gleaming teeth and claws. He was ashamed to recall that he had fainted dead away.

And now he was here, trying to kindle a fire on the cold hearth, the snow falling steadily just beyond the frosted panes of the large window. The flurry of flakes obscured his view of the estate’s grounds, though he thought they must be grand, if neglected, if the room was anything to go by. Age and disregard had taken hold of what had once been a truly majestic and luxurious place, covering it in a thick layer of dust and an ever-present threatening of decay just below the surface.

He spends a day and a night alone, able to keep the fire going with some ruined furniture. It is still snowing and difficult to estimate the time of day without the presence of the sun, though he believes it is around noon that the door finally opens and a willowy, gaunt girl enters with a tray of food. She is dark, and has a wild, desperate look to her, with sable hair that she has attempted to tame and pull back in plates around her crown but it still falls to her waist; her skin is a warm tan, the kind of color that you cannot get from being out in the sunshine, and her eyes so dark a brown that they appear to be almost wholly black. She is wearing a silk frock, but like everything else around here, its best days are decades behind it, resplendent in faded elegance.

He runs to her, his rumbling, empty belly forgotten for the moment. “Are you its prisoner as well?” he asked, gently but desperately grasping her slender shoulders. “Are you well, has it hurt you?”

She takes a moment to answer, as if she were utterly unused to speech, struggling for the right words. “Are you hurt?” she inquires softly, allowing him to lead her to the bed, an arm around her now, and sitting alongside him.

“Nay,” he says with a grateful, relieved laugh. “But what goes on here? Why does that… beast keep us here? Do you know, have you seen it?” She casts her eyes down and does not reply this time. His heart misses a beat and crawls into his throat as he imagines all the uses a savage might have for a girl such as this. “It’s all well now,” he assures her. “We have each other. Pray, what is your name, mademoiselle?”

“Bette,” she tells him, cautiously lifting her gaze to meet him, smiling slightly, shyly. “I am Bette.”

He takes her hand in his and pressed his lips to his knuckles ardently. “Bette,” he repeats. “I am called Beaumont. How have you come to be here?”

“This… is my home,” she explains, and the two of them talk while he eats, cheese and bread and wine. He offers her some but she declines every time. It occurs to him that she may be a ghost, some lonely spectre haunting these desolate halls. But she is warm—much warmer than the fire in the grate. She is reserved at first but his peaceful and genial disposition puts her at ease, and soon they are joking with one another, laughing, telling stories. He sings for her, and he thinks that he has never seen anyone look so blissful as when his voice fills the air.

When dusk begins to settle a pale shade of purple and the room grows a bit colder, Bette suddenly seems to be in a panic. She must leave, she has obligations she must see to. He begs her to stay, pray do not depart! She insists that she must, but she will return the next day. And she does, and the day after that, and the day after that. She brings him fresh roses every day, and chunks of meat join his luncheon. They grow close and their playful banter becomes flirtatious. They are falling in love. And every night, when she has a fright and flees, he is left alone to ponder and fume over Bette, the gentle soul that she is, thrown into the unforgiving claws of a monster.

One night, he catches sight of the beast bounding across the snow in the moonlight, out, he assumes, for the hunt. The next day, Bette brings him a stew she informs him is fresh bear. He cringes away from it at first, but she looks at him expectantly and, not wanting to disappoint, he eats, complimenting it, for he is sure she has prepared it. She looks pleased, and now is the perfect time, he thinks, to confess all. He gets down upon his knees and takes her slender hands in his. He professes his feelings for her, and she returns them, but she begins to cry when he speaks of escape. “But, Bette, my love, I do not understand! Do you not wish to be free?”

“I can never be,” she insists, and he frowns, looking at her gentle hands closely for the first time since she has come in the bedchamber.

“Bette, why is there blood beneath your nails?”

And with a wail of sorrow, she stumbles away from him, against the ornately carved bedpost. She begins to change, there, right before his very eyes! She grows a sleek, sepia coat of fur, her legs are expanding and twisting, bones cracking as joints appear in unnatural places. Her almost-black eyes remain in her transforming face, her wild hair becoming a mane. The frock tears from her altered body and falls away, and he sees her bare: she still has breasts, but now little pink nubs run in parallel lines down her chest as well as on the tips of her bosom, and the sable hair between her legs is thicker than anywhere else on her body. She is, in a word, breathtaking, and he cannot conceive of how he had thought her such a fiendish creature. “You are beautiful,” he declares breathlessly, his elegant hands reaching for her. She shies away from him, like a dog too much hit for its behavior. “No, please!” he begs of her. “I am sorry, I could not have guessed. But I do not lie. Forgive me the things I have said in my ignorance!”

She is now as tall as he is and he can look her in the eye; she sees the sincerity there. “Your song,” she tells him, her voice deep and gruff, going to his arms, allowing him to pet and explore, “it soothes my savage soul like no other.”

“Then I will sing for you,” he murmurs to her lovingly. His long fingers stroke her thick fur, running through it tenderly. His hands come to her breasts and he cups them gently, watching as her eyelids flutter, threatening to close. Her toys with her nipples, first on the globes of her bosom and then the four against her stomach. He urges her to the bed, and when she is lying down, he sets his mouth to those sensitive, pink buds, suckling each with his warm, wet mouth. She purrs and rubs herself delightedly against the damask coverlet. He takes his time, plucking at each nipple, tasting this new sensation, her musk. And then his hand is exploring the thatch between her bowed legs, discovering her, delving into her secrets, still so womanly. He caresses with his fingers and then uses his mouth to bring out a rush of her salty-sweet nectar. Her hands claw at the headboard, leaving it in splinters. She props her feet on his shoulders, his head buried between her thighs and her feet curling around him until she can feel the cloth of his shirt tearing.

It is her turn. His clothing does not fare well against the onslaught of her eager claws, but the end justifies the means. He is well muscled but slender, not a farmer’s body, and covered in a soft, blond down all over his skin. It makes her chuckle and he joins in on the joke. “Not quite as you, my love,” he teases.

He gives him a tongue bath with her long, rough-velvet tongue such as he could never have imagined in his wildest fantasies. No inch of his body goes neglected as she devours him wetly from head to toe, lingering in those male places, lapping at his cock until he is as hard as iron, her tongue curling about the delicate, plump sac beneath. He groans, knowing how she felt when she was luxuriating in his attentions, wanting to wiggle against the duvet himself; her tongue seems to be jointed itself, doubly so, as it reaches and bends about all his private spaces.

He huffs and bids her stop before he can lose control of himself. They are to be joined now, and forever, he tells her, and her eyes are large and loving as he kisses her cheeks, the sides of her small muzzle. She positions herself for him, as an animal would do on all fours, and he crawls between her spread legs, plays with her tail a moment before moving it aside and sliding his cock down along the split in her backside, to the sweltering, silken lips of her sex. He pushed in and braced himself over her, hands upon her lithe shoulders, feeling the muscles tense and relax, tense and relax with every greedy thrust. They are moving together, as one, his hands groping her underside, fingertips brushing and pinching her nipples as he lies against her back, panting and grunting as much as she.

She reaches the climax of her ecstasy, half a howl and half a roar coming from her throat as she released a musky liquid, covering his shaft and testicles, making him work harder in his rapture. He fills her with his seed, consummating their devotion, their bond. Four times he pumps, the last leaving a white, sticky residue on her furred thighs.

“Beauty,” he murmurs to her as she curls up underneath him, his own body collapsing atop her, his nose and mouth nuzzling her upturned ear, his arms tightly around her, “and beast. I will sing for you, I will soothe my savage beast for all time. My Bette.”

“My Beaumont,” she rumbles tenderly.

Suddenly, he laughs. "Imagine what the cubs will look like!" he says, grinning. She turns her head and gives his cheek a quick, playful kiss with her tongue and then settling in for a long winter’s nap with her beloved.


End file.
